


I Want to Cut Through the Clouds

by dynamicsymmetry



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, F/M, Femdom, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Summer of Bethyl, Summer of Bethyl 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 00:25:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15449229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: Beth blew Daryl’s mind by coming back from the dead - and then she blew something else. But now, when he’s ready to give her anything, she wants something new. New, simple, and maybe not so simple at all.





	I Want to Cut Through the Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> Getting this in just under the EST wire. Today’s prompt is “sound”. [Carly Rae Jepsen](https://youtube.com/watch?v=Qlsu7RhOnsQ) seemed only appropriate. I mean, obviously. 
> 
> ❤️

“You don't have to be so quiet.”

It's like she's slapped him. He snaps his head up and stares down at her, wide-eyed and nonplussed, trying to process what she's said and what she might mean and, well, the whole fucking situation, because it's not like it's a surprise to him, he was conscious from the beginning, but every time he sees her like this, he discovers that he hasn't lost his capacity for shock.

It's shocking. Pretty Beth Greene on her knees with her clothes in a careless pile on the bedroom floor and his dick in her hand, the dark head shiny with her spit and his precome. Every part of her is shocking—that she's so bold, that she strips and shoves him down on the bed and drops between his spread thighs, tugs his fly open with clever little fingers and reaches in and draws him out, and if he's not hard enough for her she gets him there with easy, confident strokes. Or she takes him into her mouth anyway, slides her lips down and down his shaft and sucks him until he's so hard it nearly hurts him.

Shocking, that she's even _alive_. But that's a whole other thing. That's a whole other goddamn level.

He wanted to ask her, the first time she did this to him, how many times she had done it before, because he couldn't detect a hint of uncertainty in her. But he didn't know how to do that without sounding crass, so he said nothing.

She took him deep and he went rigid and came his fucking brain out, and said nothing.

But now she's stopped, and he's blinking at her, and wondering with a surge of anxiety whether he's done something wrong. There's no anger or disappointment in how she's gazing up at him, but there is a faint edge of frustration, and he wants to say he's sorry with a fierceness completely unchecked by the fact that he has no idea what he'd be apologizing for.

Though she did say something.

“Huh?”

“You heard me.” She gives him a small squeeze and his chest hitches. “You don't have to be quiet like that.” Quick glance tossed over her shoulder at the door—closed, locked. “We’re in your own damn room, you don't have to be like we’re all camping in a group or somethin’.”

He knows what she's referring to. Maggie and Glenn, back before the prison, when they would take their blankets and go to the furthest safe edge of the circle, or the remotest corner they could find, and fuck as quietly as they could—out of courtesy more than anything else, because it's not as though everyone wasn't fully aware of what they were doing. Quick, shallow breathing, a sigh, a gasp, perhaps a muffled groan, then over and sleep, or hushed pillow talk until sleep overtook them.

It's what you do. People have appetites, and at some point you don't deny them. And it's not like he is. He spends more of his days than he ever thought he would daydreaming about Beth Greene’s sweet, wet pussy and her wickedly nimble tongue. He wants her, and then when he can, he has her, and isn't he doing that now?

But she shakes her head. That's not what she means.

“You're always so quiet,” she continues, rolling back on her heels. Her legs are spread wide, and he can't stop his attention falling down her lean body to her thatch of blond curls, glimpse of the dark pink of her labia just below, the sheen of her arousal. He’ll give that special attention later, if she lets him, if she forgives him for whatever he's done. “Even when you come. You're keepin’ it back. You don't have to.” She swallows. “I wish you wouldn't.”

Dimly, he's beginning to get it. Noise. Quiet. The door. The truly marvelous degree of privacy they have now.

More than they ever had since before he lost her for the first time.

“I—” he starts, and cuts himself off, at a loss. He'd like to give her whatever answer she's looking for. Offer her some kind of explanation, if nothing else. But how to explain what happens when the pleasure blasts through his nerves, or shivers and sparkles, how it's like someone rolls a boulder across the opening of his throat and his voice packs against it and can't get through.

He didn't even notice it until she said something.

“I don't want you to _make_ yourself do anythin’.” She leans down and places a light kiss on the head of his cock, and he tangles his fingers in her hair as his eyes roll. “So if that's just… how you _are,_ that's okay. But I don't think that's it. So if you wanna make some noise, you can.” She turns slightly and favors him with the outer curve of a smile. “Let me know I'm doin’ good.”

Shit. “You're doin’ good,” he breathes.

She's always good. She's _spectacular_.

“Alright.” Tongue instead of lips this time, little cat-flick under where his foreskin gathers and stretches. His teeth practically grind. “It’s okay if you wanna be a little louder, is all.”

She takes him back in, tortuously slow, and he watches her until he can't anymore and his head drops back between his shoulders, inhaling in short hisses. He was getting close when she stopped and she bought him a bit more time but he's rising again, that spring in his core winding up until it flings itself apart, and he's just letting go enough to allow himself to rock his hips and push deeper into her throat—

When she stops again, and he leaves her mouth with a sticky _pop_.

He jerks his head up again and peers hazily at her, more confused than ever.

The gaze that meets his is blue, and cool, and utterly uncompromising as she grasps him around the base and gives him another squeeze. Firmer this time, and proprietary. The message is unspoken but unmistakable.

_I've got you by the balls, mister._

“Moan for me.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it and tries again. “What?”

“You heard me. Moan for me. I know you can.”

“Beth—”

Abruptly her hand is gone, just _gone,_ his cock bobbing free and heavy, and he gropes clumsily for her and whimpers—and her lovely face splits into a grin.

“See? Now.” She arches her spine, reaches up to toy lazily with one of her pert little nipples, and all the moisture in his mouth evaporates at once. There's no reason why she has to be naked for this act but she seems to luxuriate in being so and there's no way he was ever going to question it, and now she's luxuriating in _herself,_ and for the first time in his life it occurs to him to wonder whether a man is capable of coming without being touched. “Just do that again, but more.”

He mumbles her name again, his hands loose and helpless on his thighs; he could use them to finish the job she started, he's perfectly capable—but he knows that would be breaking the rules of whatever game she's started playing.

That really _would_ disappoint her. Maybe even hurt her.

So there is no way in any hell in existence that he's going to lay a finger on himself. Not unless she directs him to.

“Do it,” she murmurs, her voice husky and unlike anything he's ever heard from her, and— _what the hell, man, just do like the nice lady says_ —he somehow unstops his throat and lets another quavery little sound escape.

“Good. Like that.” She smiles again, small and radiant, and he just about sobs with relief when she grips him. Then once more he claws that stone away and he does sob, strained and still partially muted, but her smile widens and he feels a flush of pleasure that has nothing whatsoever to do with his dick.

If he's honest, making her smile has always turned him on more than anything else either of them could ever do.

“I like that a lot,” she whispers, and brushes another kiss against his shaft—lips parted and slick, her tongue fluttering, and as she glides upward centimeter by centimeter that stone is suddenly run through with cracks, and a thick, shaking moan crawls out of him.

_Do it like that. Just like that._

He does get why it's so difficult. Or he will. Coherent thought, as she circles those plump lips around his head and traces the tip of her tongue over his slit, is totally beyond him, but all the raw materials are there, waiting to be gathered together and built into the truth. Which is that he's scared. He's terrified. If he breaks himself open that wide, if his hold slips, Something Bad might happen—some disaster visited on him, or her, like maybe someone _will_ hear, the wrong person, a big person with a heavy tread and heavy fists, and he'll get in trouble.

They'll both get in trouble. And he'll be too broken open to protect anyone.

If he loses control, the world might end.

_It won’t. You know it won't._

_Trust me._

He does. He does trust her. He doesn't have any choice but to trust her, and he has no resistance to her. She rolls right into him, busts into his cells and replicates herself into an endless funhouse mirror set of copies, and she becomes his whole damn world. The perfect, graceful lines of her naked body gently lit by the bedside lamp, cornsilk hair gathered out of her way over her shoulder, her long eyelashes lying against her cheeks and the shadows shifting as her head bobs, her beautiful lips all around him and her tight fist following them up and down. His mouth falls open and he moans, moans louder, feels a giddy ripple of exhilaration when she echoes him.

This doesn't have to be just him. She's right here with him.

She won't leave him again.

So that's when he leans back, braces his hands behind him like a man all set to recline, and his head lolls and he opens himself up and lets it come. Lets her play with him, nuzzling and licking him and humming happily as she does, and he drowns her out with sounds that come out dense and shuddering, starting from somewhere so deep inside him, a place he doesn't remember ever going to before. And it feels so _good,_ good as her mouth does, her free hand cupping his balls and toying with them as idly as she did her nipple. She's smiling around him, a noise escaping her very much like laughter, and his groans ripple into that and join her there.

It's all right. It's all right to _enjoy her._ When she's offering herself up to be enjoyed, when all she wants is to know that he's finding his pleasure inside her.

Maybe they're not really so different at all.

_Beth_. That he would be able to speak at all right now is ridiculous, but this is all ridiculous, and somehow the words found their way to him—only a few, simple, but enough. _Beth, oh my God. Oh shit, that's so fuckin’ good, Beth, yeah, oh._

Placeholders for what he can't say. How she's beautiful beyond comprehension, how she's strong and powerful and she completely undoes him simply by existing, and he would give anything for her, do anything for her, and a little of his voice is nothing at all.

Unless it is, to her.

Only she doesn't just want his voice. She's winding that spring tighter, and her movements are increasing in urgency as his whines rise in pitch, coaxing him up; he tilts his hips and flexes, seizes, and her name rips out of him in a broken cry as she receives what he gives her.

And yeah, probably anyone awake in the house can hear.

Possibly next door.

He's laughing again as he collapses onto the bed, staring dazed at the shadows on the ceiling. Indistinct and intermingling—him and her. When he lifts his head he catches a blond blur between his legs, the glitter of her eyes. Flash of her smile. She's leaning against the inside of his thigh, her lips still grazing him, and he jumps slightly when the friction is too much. Chuckles weakly.

_Yeah_.

She levers herself up by his knees, clambers over him and lays herself down on top of him. She must still be soaking wet, more than ready for him if he could get it up again anytime in the immediate future, but she can wait. There's always his mouth and his fingers if she gets impatient. In the meantime she snuggles against him and he wraps his arms around her, and it's bizarre how perfect her naked skin feels through the barrier of his clothes.

“I like that,” she breathes. “You just keep doin’ that for me.”

He grunts. It'll do for an affirmative. Not that he would deny her. If that's what she wants, the evidence of his voice, she can have it. She can have it all.

He can't sing worth a damn. But he’ll serenade her all the same.


End file.
